The portrait
by Happymood
Summary: After an argument with England, France finds himself drawing a portrait of England's himself to prove to the other how much of a good artist he really was. He never immagined that drawing England would make him realize more things that he was actually willing to... One-shot.


Everything happened after one of their stupid quarrels. France didn't remember how it started, just that in the end England mocked him and told him that France wasn't such an artist as he thought he was, and France felt so insulted that he declared he was going to make a portrait of England, including those ugly caterpillars he called eyebrows, and make it so beautiful that no one would recognize that it was England himself.

England snorted. France knew meant it was a deal and immediately started working. He didn't know how much time he was going to waste on it, but he was set up to make it the best piece of art on Earth.

So he sat down in his studio, took a pencil and started drawing.

He sketched down England's face outline first, trying to be as precise as possible: England's forehead, England's chin, England's ears and France thought he did a good job already because it looked good without England's _ugliness_ ruining it.

France then wondered what he should do and, chuckling to himself, he filled England's forehead with black lines ending up painting the whole face black. France threw the drawing away and started again, this time trying not to exaggerate so much on the eyebrows. The second drawing was slightly better, but there was still a shadow covering England's forehead and France had to throw it away too. The eyebrows were more difficult that he first thought, France realized, because if he made them too bushy it looked ugly and unrealistic, but if he did them too thin it didn't look like England at all. England's face lost that something and it made France uncomfortable. He decided to sketch them afterwards.

France traced down England's nose then. Just for laughs, he drew a potato first and then erased it immediately after. He reminded himself that this was serious business after all, but after a moment he couldn't refrain from drawing an ugly stick drawing that resembled more to an England-dragon than England himself.

France put the new drawing away and took another piece of paper out.

France decided that maybe he should start from the eyes instead. He drew the outline of England's face again and concentrated on the other's eyes. France knew them by heart. He remembered when they were innocent and curious, when England looked like a baby rabbit, pouty lips and hands that were so small in France's palm. England though wasn't innocent anymore, so France tried to concentrate on another emotion he always saw in his enemy's eyes.

Anger. Sure. How many times England had been angry at him? How many times that anger was reciprocated? An angry England wasn't beautiful, though, sexy maybe but not beautiful and so France gave that idea up.

Sadness. France remembered the way England had looked so lost when America declared independence from him. That was one of the few times that France had seen England sad. Considering, though, that one of the main reasons for that emotion was France himself, he decided to give that idea up too.

Happiness. Of course, never directed at him. France though had to admit that England's eyes in those rare moments were astounding. He started drawing their shape, then the pupils and the lines around the eyelids. France concentrated so much in the eyes that in the end he felt lost in them, as they looked up at him with a mixture of happiness and lust that France found simply amazing.

France decided then that it was a good time to add the eyebrows, the right shape this time, and noticed that they didn't unbalance the whole image as he first supposed they would. It was like they were supposed to be like that, otherwise the eyes lost a sparkle France had never noticed was there.

England's nose was easy, but France was stuck once more when the time to draw England's lips arrived. He traced their outline, pressing his pencil a little on the lower lip, wondering why England liked to pout, scowl, twitch them up in sarcasm so much when he could be handsome if he just let himself smile. France decided to make his England a scowling one, but then changed idea and traced a line at the corner of England's lips, making him smile softly at him, inviting France to just lean down and kiss them.

France had never noticed how soft England's lips looked. He noticed it now that he drew them out of his memory, remembering how many times England had smirked at him, laughed at him, mocked him, shouted at him with that same mouth France was trying so hard to put on paper.

In that moment France suddenly realized that England had indeed smiled at him once.

The memory shocked him. He was surprised he had removed that memory in the first place as England's smiles were so rare France could count them on the fingers of one hand. England had smiled at him, but France couldn't remember when and why, he just remembered his heart starting to beat just a little faster and how, at that time, France had felt like hugging England and never let go.

That time England had looked at him, straight in the eyes, green in blue, and had stretched his lips up without showing teeth, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes showing how happy he was really feeling in that moment. France damned himself for not remembering the when and why because he would do everything in his power to see England do that again. The only thing he couldn't forget was how much France had tried to stay away from him, how hard he had tried to keep a distance between them and how much he had cursed himself because the only thing he could think about was that, if he got any closer, he wouldn't be able to let go of England's hands if he did.

France sighed, looked down at England's face, and suddenly feeling frustrated he drew two big bunny ears on the top of England's head. The result was amusing and quite exciting if he had to be honest so he immediately erased it out. He started drawing England's hair instead, laughing when he suddenly remembered when they were young and England wanted to grow his hair out.

Long hair didn't suit England. France though couldn't refrain from commenting out loud that England should learn how to use a brush someday too. He started drawing England's rebellious hair and ended up thinking that England looked like he just got laid in the end, considering the way he was now looking up at him, smiling in that teasing manner and running a hand through his hair.

The hand had been a difficult task too and not because France couldn't draw hands. He knew every curve on England's palm, every curve of England's knuckles and the feel of England's fingertips on his skin. It was difficult because France couldn't picture England's hands without a weapon whatsoever, he couldn't picture how they looked like when England was relaxed because, when it came to France, England's hands always tightened up into fists or eventually ended up being around France's throat.

France wondered what England's hands felt on his skin when England wasn't in the mood to hurt him, not in that way at least. What would England look when they weren't at war or in that apathy they called peace? France was almost tempted to go to England and see, forget about his portrait, their quarrels and see what would happen if he just asked England…

No. He had a portrait to do. He looked down at his drawing and decided it was time to draw England's neck and shoulders. He didn't want to go any further, he didn't know if he could contain himself if went any further, and started tracing the outline of England's neck. France couldn't stop wondering what that neck would feel like under his lips. If he concentrated long enough he could almost imagine England's Adam's apple slightly moving when England gulped down at the sensation of France's lips on his skin.

England would look absolutely astounding, France knew, and now that he looked down at his almost finished portrait, France had to admit England was handsome anyway. England's portrait had turned out really realistic, as if England was really looking up at him, smiling, his eyes so teasing, his hair unmanageable, his neck so alluring and that hand that waited for France to entwine their fingers together.

France coughed and decided that he didn't want to paint his portrait because he was sure that, if he did, he would never give it to England in the end.

France folded it and put it away, checking with the corner of his eyes the time on the clock hanging on the wall. It had taken him less that he had supposed at first, but maybe it was because he hadn't drawn a proper portrait but only a sketch. He wondered if he should take it to England in the end or have it all for himself, before he realized that he couldn't care less to have England's sketch in his drawer or not.

When he arrived at England's house and England opened the door, France almost shoved the portrait in England's face. England was surprised to see him as if he had totally forgotten about their quarrel and unfolded the paper all the while glancing at France with a sarcastic look in his eyes.

France crossed his arms over his chest, looking at England smugly, sure that he had done a damn well job, and England should just admit it and let him win this one. England looked at the portrait and stared at his own face looking up at him for a long, quiet moment before he shouted:

"I look like I have been just shagged!" England exclaimed horrified. "You are a pervert!"

France snorted and as if to check it out himself he grabbed the paper back in his hands. England looked sexy, that was true, but when France looked up at the real England blushing tenfold in front of him, he immediately realized that he still hadn't managed to grab England's real essence.

England was more handsome that his portrait was.

"You must admit I didn't make you ugly."

"I… well… no, but! That's not… that's not me…" England said and almost made to go inside when France said:

"So? Am I good?" France smirked and England snorted, grabbing the paper back from France's grasp and said:

"No! But I'm taking this with me because God's know what you are going to use my face for!"

"England. You hurt me." France said smiling, and England snorted. France looked at the other's green eyes, studied the line of the other's nose, his cheeks, those eyebrows, his forehead, his neck and, lastly, those pouty lips and decided that it was a pity he couldn't keep the portrait because at least he could see England happy everyday, smiling everyday, being his everyday.

"W-what are you staring at?" England exclaimed and France breathed, smiled, looked down and shook his head.

"Nothing." France said, "I believe I won this time. See you." He smiled and turned his back to England, raising his hands in mock salute.

"This isn't over!" England shouted behind him, and France wanted so much to tell him that he was right because now France realized, after centuries of being together, how much France wanted to see England smile to him again.

Then, suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder, stopping in his tracks, and France suddenly realized that he had said his thoughts out loud and that England had heard everything.

France dared to look at a flushed and nervous England, and almost cursed himself for having agreed to that strange bet in the first place.

"W-well then…" England said, looking defiantly at France's face, "…maybe… maybe you are an artist and a perverted one at that. Only sometimes, though, when you have luck on your side..."

France smiled wanting to lean down and kiss those lips he realized he so much loved, but did nothing.

"That's a compliment from you." France smiled. "Do you know how difficult were your eyebrows in the first place?"

"Forget I said anything!" England shouted, getting red and pushing France abruptly away. "You are bloody bastard."

"I love you too." France said and without waiting for England's response, he turned around and left.


End file.
